Fifty Shades of Snow
by Tacit Whisky
Summary: Sansa doesn't know how to deal with how much she likes rough sex. And especially not how much she likes it with Jon.


The first time is in an abandoned hall of Sansa's parents house during a cocktail party, the sound of music and tinkling laughter in the other room faint, light flickering under the door on the far side of the hall as Jon pins her hands over her head, his dark eyes watching as she pants and groans and squirms against his fingers inside her, wanting more, needing more, whimpering for more, and when she peaks it's arching on those fingers.

Only then does Jon kiss her, hard and bruising, tongue shoved in her mouth, drinks the groan his fingers rip from her as she comes again and again and again.

* * *

The first time Sansa's mind is warm and fuzzy and she giggles as she nearly trips on her four inch heels and Jon has to reach out to grab her elbow as they walk down the dark of the hallway. "You're drunk," he says with a faint grin, lips twitching, "Sansa you're so drunk right now."

Sansa rolls her eyes and pulls away, nearly tripping again. She rights herself and sips at her gin and coke, gives Jon a withering look over the rim of the glass. Growing up she'd never given him a second look mostly because she'd never given him a first. It's hard not to now though, not to notice how effortlessly handsome he is in his black slacks and jacket, the top few buttons of his clean white shirt dress shirt undone. Stubble shadows his jaw, so unlike Joffrey's clean cheeks, and maybe that and the fact she actually is a little tipsy is why she says, "I watched the video on your laptop."

"What video?" Jon quirks an eyebrow. "And when were you on my laptop?"

"I needed Arya's flight information and you don't have a password on it." She drains the gin and coke and gives Jon another withering look. "Which is incredibly dumb. It's the twenty first century. And you know which video. The one you forgot to put in your porn folder."

Jon's eyes dip in a slow blink, and Sansa finds herself strangely disappointed by his lack of reaction. "You _are_ drunk," he says.

"So?" Sansa leans back against the wall, tilts her chin up in a silent challenge. "Is that what you're into? Tying girls up? Is that what gets you off?"

Jon blinks again, still maddeningly unreactive. "What do you care?"

Sansa shrugs carelessly, like she doesn't. "I don't. I just thought you were better than that. I thought you were a good guy."

Somehow without moving Jon's eyes are suddenly different, unreadable, pools of black even in the flickering light leaking out from the door at the end of the hall. "No you didn't," he says softly.

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek and looks down the hall, the words ringing truer than she likes. From the first moment Robb first dragged Jon back home with him like some stray off the street Sansa had always been the least enthusiastic of her siblings in welcoming him. It wasn't that she disliked Jon exactly, but they'd never been close: her life cotillions with Margaery and summer houses with Jeyne and family vacations in the south of France that didn't have a place for her brother's brooding charity case friend.

Sansa shifts against the wall, well aware of what it does to the dress she's wearing, how the slinky material will drape over her legs. She has good legs she knows, long and tapered and smooth, the only perk of being taller in heels than most men. Joffrey had hated that, had always made her wear flats so she didn't embarrass him, made her feel tall and ungainly. Not that it was the only thing he'd made her feel freakish for, not the only thing that had made his lip curl in that sneering way of his when he called her slut or whore or bitch.

_Isn't that why you stayed with him so long, though? Because he knew just how little you worth? _A voice deep in Sansa whispers. _Or was it because you wanted to be treated like that, needed to be treated like that, craved being treated like that._

Shame wells sharp and sick in Sansa's stomach, and she lifts her chin higher. "You still haven't answered. Is that what you're into, Jon? Tying girls up and making them beg for your dick? Calling them names and making their mascara runs?" She giggles, not sure why's she taunting him or what she hopes to accomplish, whether she wants Jon to step closer or walk away. "God, how tiny must your dick be if that's what it takes to get it hard, Jon. I watched the whole thing, you know, the part where he slapped her at the end and told her to thank him. It was _gross_."

Jon tilts his head to the side, and Sansa bites her tongue. It had just slipped out, tongue loose with gin, and there's no taking it back now. _I watched the whole thing. _She jerks her head away. "It's gross," she mutters to the empty hall, "disgusting."

Silence stretches between them, the only sound the tinkle of conversation and music at the far end of the hall. Sansa keeps her gaze firmly on the flicker of light under the door, refusing to look at Jon. Since she's been old enough to know what it it Sansa's known all porn is disgusting and degrading to women, the kind of thing a girl who had been raised right would never glance at much less watch. It's gross that Jon watches it at all, much less the specific video he had, but Sansa's heart is beating faster than it should, thumping painfully in her chest, her cheeks flushed and burning, and she doesn't know why: doesn't know what she's waiting for.

She isn't drunk, not really, but she wishes she was. It would make it easier: easier not to hate herself for how her skin prickles at the thought of Jon grabbing her like the man in the video and pushing her against the wall, shove her legs apart, snarl in her ear to be a good little slut for him. If she was drunk in the morning she could blame it on the alcohol, pretend she'd given into what he wanted and not what made her toss and turn in the dark the night before until she'd eventually given in and slipped a hand between her legs to find herself already wet.

And just as Sansa's made up her mind she's going to walk away, to chalk it all up to too much gin and pretend this never happened, Jon steps forward. His cologne is faint as he takes the empty glass from her and carefully places it on a side table before reaching up and fisting his fingers in the back of her hair. She shudders, a bone deep shiver that makes her knees weak as he pulls her head back, careless of how she's taller than him, of how she's wearing a dress that costs more than his rent, of how she's senator Ned Stark's little girl who men have always lusted after but been too scared to touch like this. His breath whispers against her exposed throat, a wolf before its kill, as he says soft and dangerous, "tell me to stop."

She doesn't.

* * *

The second time's a month later in the apartment she shares with Margaery. Margaery's out on a date with the latest hedge fund manager she has wrapped around her little finger, their place empty for the night, and Sansa's a quarter of the way through a bottle of wine before she breaks down and texts Jon: _come over._

She pours and downs another glass, and just as she's sure Jon's not going to text back, that he must've gone to sleep early, her phone chirps. _Why?_

Sansa chews her bottom lip. They don't text. Not really. Not unless it's a groupchat with the rest of her siblings or an emergency. _I'm bored, _she eventually taps out like this isn't strange, like they're friends, like she has any right to his attention. _Come save me._

A long moment, then three jumping dots before he texts back. _I'm on a date._

Trust Jon-eternally-fucking-single-Snow to be on a date tonight of all nights. _What's her name? _Sansa texts back, and tells herself she doesn't care even a little.

_Val._

_Going to get lucky? _

_Maybe. I like her._

_Who says she likes you?_

_Me._

Simple. Short. Confident. Sansa chews her lip, hating everything about herself in that moment, wishing she could just put her phone down and walk away like she should. But her skin is flushed and cheeks hot, and a restless energy tingling through her arms and legs.

_Just come over,_ she eventually taps out. _Margaery's out and I'm all on my own._

It's the most she can say. The most she can ask. The most the darling daughter of senator Ned Stark can text without shattering the image she's so carefully crafted for herself of the perfect young woman who's the apple of society's eye. That girl had been raised right. Had been raised by her mother to be strong and confident. That girl might dress up in lingerie on a special occasion for a long time boyfriend, might try a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs to appease him, might even giggle while getting spanked a few times.

But that girl doesn't crave more, doesn't crave being hurt or helpless or shown her place in the most degrading ways possible, doesn't crave the sharp edge of panic as a belt is cinched tight around her windpipe. Doesn't have an endless well of shame and self loathing when she thinks of what she wants, of what she'd let men do to her. That girl doesn't play with herself every night for the last month at the idea of Jon pushing her to her knees and fisting his fingers in her hair, doesn't arch and pant and groan against her mattress at the thought of him looping his belt around her throat, doesn't bite her tongue to keep from moaning loud enough to wake Margaery at the thought of him snarling in her ear what a dumb little slut she is as he shoves into her from behind.

Sansa stares at her phone, heart thumping against her ribcage as seconds slip by without an answer. Then, finally, three jumping dots.

_Give me a half hour._

* * *

The second time Jon slides his belt off and loops it around her wrists, cinches them tight behind her back and throws her onto her bed. She whimpers and pushes back, hating the layers of clothes between her and the hardness in his jeans, but his calloused hand closes around the back of her neck in a grip that makes her shudder, helpless as a kitten grabbed by the scruff of its neck. He shoves her cheek into the mattress and with his other hand pushes her legs apart.

And then he takes his time. His grip on the back of her neck keeps her pinned and helpless as his fingers rub agonizingly slow circles around her clit. He slides one finger and then another into her until she's rocking her hips back with each thrust of his fingers, moaning into the mattress words she'd never admit to in the light of day, that she'll do whatever he wants, that she'll be his good little slut, his good little whore, that he can do whatever he wants to her, just let her have it, please, use her, own her, hurt her, please Jon, please-

Only when her words have turned to wordless groans does she hear his zipper rasp down. His hand fists in the back of her hair and he yanks her up, arches her against him. His other hand follows the curve of her hips and waist and ribs, fingertips whispering maddeningly light as he traces and invisible line. "You're being such a good girl for me, Sansa," he murmurs, words soft and dangerous, voice shivering against her skin, "aren't you?"

Sansa nods frantically. She rocks back on the hard shape of him against her ass, the heat of him, unable to do more than let out a wordless, mewling whine. She needs him in her, filling her, needs it more than she's ever needed anything in her life, needs him to reduce her to a single keening need.

His hand unclenches from her hair and he wraps it around her throat, sound dimming and pulse pounding in her ears as he tightens his fingers, pulls her tight against the hard lines of his body behind her, presses his lips to the curve of her ear, voice just as soft and dangerous and skin tingling as before. "Don't come until I tell you."

* * *

Afterwards Jon slips his belt from her wrists and draws her to him, strangely gentle, as though she were a half drowned kitten. It doesn't make any sense after what he's just done to her, the way he was just shoving into her, but instinctively Sansa curls into him, into the warmth of his chest and safety of his arms. Joffrey had never held her after they had sex, always sneered at how clingy she was, lip curling back if she tried to lay her head on his chest or curl up beside him. The memory should make her shrink away from Jon now, fill her with a bone deep shame, but the instinct is faraway and fuzzy and it's hard for Sansa to think about anything but the feel of his chest, his arms tight around her, the musk of him in her nose, the gentle sift of his fingers through her hair, hard for her to want anything but for this warm safe moment to never end.

But it does, snapping in two like brittle ice as Margaery's keys jangle at the door. Sansa's heart leaps into her throat and she pushes away from Jon, scrambles out of bed and frantically gathers their clothes from the floor and shoves his towards him, hisses at him to get dressed.

Something passes over Jon's face as he takes his clothes from her, some emotion Sansa can't place, something almost bitter. But just as soon as it's there it's gone and Sansa leans out from her door frame, smiles at Margaery, and asks her how her date went just like she has a hundred times, light and breezy and with a faint air of disinterest because senator Stark's daughter didn't date around like Margaery Tyrell, didn't fill trashy tabloids with her sexual exploits.

The look that flashed over Jon's face stays with Sansa as Margaery rolls her eyes and chats for a minute before saying she's heading to bed. She doesn't understand the look, doesn't understand Jon. But she understands Sansa Stark. The senator's daughter, the socialite, the confident young woman who she's so carefully and painstakingly crafted. And that girl didn't ache to be used. Hurt. Abused. Not by Jon Snow.

And if her heart throbs in her throat when she glances at Jon still out of sight on her bed, an ache like a day old bruise she doesn't understand, she'll simply bury that in the dark empty place inside her she shoves down everything that girl isn't.

* * *

AN: Follow my tumblr at tacitwhisky for snippets of upcoming chapters and fics.


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